


In more ways than one

by greenapricot



Category: Lewis (TV)
Genre: M/M, five times fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-19
Updated: 2020-04-19
Packaged: 2021-03-02 00:13:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,427
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23725891
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/greenapricot/pseuds/greenapricot
Summary: “Celebrating?” the server asks as she sets plates down on the table.“Aye, you could say that I suppose.” Robbie isn’t sure what makes pints and fish and chips, or Hathaway’s salad look festive, but the end of this slog of a case, in combination with the gorgeous weather, has put them both in a fine mood. James is positively chipper.(Or five times Lewis and Hathaway were mistaken for a couple and one time they were.)
Relationships: James Hathaway/Robert Lewis
Comments: 38
Kudos: 269





	In more ways than one

**Author's Note:**

  * For [iloveyoudie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/iloveyoudie/gifts).



> For iloveyoudie for giving me the prompt and generally being awesome.

**one**  


When Robbie returns with round two, Hathaway is chatting to one of the young women from the next table over. She’s pulled her chair across the space between the tables and is leaning in toward him. Robbie hangs back, giving them space. She’s smiling up at Hathaway, beaming almost, and he’s even half-smiling back, his head bent toward hers in a way Robbie finds encouraging. 

Good for him. This is just what he needs, a nice young woman who looks at him fondly and doesn’t have anything to do with a case. Robbie takes a step forward, prepared to hand over both pints and get out of their hair, when they both look up at him. She stands, giving Hathaway a wide smile and a little wave before pulling her chair back over to her own table and beginning to gather her things. 

Hathaway is looking a bit pink as he watches her leave the pub with the other young woman who had been patiently waiting for her.

“Who was that, then?” Robbie asks, plunking the pints down on the table.

“No one.” Hathaway leans forward taking a long drink and avoiding Robbie’s eyes.

“Didn’t look like no one.” 

Hathaway purses his lips, his face going a mite redder. 

“Go after her,” Robbie says. “I’ll be all right on my own, I’m sure.” 

“It wasn’t like that.”

“Looked like that,” Robbie says, settling into his seat. “Go on, man.” 

Hathaway huffs out an exasperated laugh and shakes his head. “I kept noticing her watching us, and she noticed me noticing and came over to apologise. She said her parents have a large age difference between them as well and wanted me to know she wasn’t judging us and that she thinks we’re sweet.” Hathaway’s face scrunches with a show of indignation at the word. 

Robbie lets out a laugh. “You set her straight, I take it?” 

“Of course,” James says. There’s something a bit off about his air of amused indifference. Despite his protests, the poor sod probably had been hoping she’d come over for a flirt.

**two**  


Robbie finishes the game only one point down, or so Hathaway says. Truth be told he’s long since past caring who scores how many points in their squash games. He’s pretty sure James doesn’t care either beyond the opportunity to take the mickey out of him over it on the way back to the locker room. 

Robbie likes to stand in the shower long enough that the heat of the water—much hotter than the water in his flat ever gets—seeps into his old bones. Hathaway prefers a quick shower followed by a quick smoke; always on his way out to indulge in said smoke before Robbie is finished dressing. Oh, to be young and possessing of the lung capacity to smoke a fag after a workout. 

“Keeps you on your toes, does he?” a voice says from behind Robbie just after the door to the locker room shuts behind Hathaway.

Robbie turns toward the speaker, a man a bit younger than him wearing flashy workout kit. 

“I suppose,” Robbie says, not entirely sure what the man is on about and not overly keen to strike up a conversation with a stranger before he’s finished buttoning his shirt.

“They say squash is a young man’s game,” the man continues. “But I’d say playing it with a young man keeps you young, eh.”

Robbie has to admit that since he and James have started playing regularly, save for that one incident with his back early on, he has been feeling more fit. He suspects Hathaway is going easy on him, but what he doesn’t know isn’t going to hurt him, and it’s unlikely he’ll ever get the lad to admit it anyway.

“Stuart,” the man says, offering his hand.

Robbie drapes his tie around his neck and shakes his hand. “Robbie.”

“Nice to meet you, Robbie. If your young man ever gets to be too much for you I’m always up for a round.”

“He’s not—” Robbie starts, then decides it doesn’t matter. “Cheers,” he says, and goes back to tying his tie and fishing his jacket out of the locker. Stuart has gone off to the shower by the time Robbie’s finished dressing.

Hathaway is leaning against the building, cigarette in one hand and phone in the other, when Robbie walks out the door. He drops his holdall on the ground and leans on the wall next to Hathaway who stuffs his phone in his pocket and takes one last drag before dropping the cigarette on the ground. 

“Oi,” Robbie says, without heat just as the door to the building opens again. Hathaway looks slightly abashed, but bends down with a cheeky smile and picks up the butt, stuffing it into his cigarette pack.

“Have a good night, Robbie,” Stuart calls out as he passes them by, then winks.

“Friend of yours?” Hathaway asks.

“Not exactly.”

“He winked at you.”

“Aye,” Robbie says, picking up his holdall. “He also called you my young man.”

“In that case,” James says. “You’re buying the takeaway.”

**three**  


Robbie puts the mozzarella and parmesan in the shopping trolley and eyes the suspicious looking bundle of dark green leaves that weren’t there when Hathaway sent him off to the dairy aisle. 

“What’s all this, then? I thought you were making lasagna?”

“I am,” Hathaway says from over by the organic tomatoes. “Spinach is an excellent addition to lasagna.”

“And that?” Robbie points to the square package the spinach is sitting on top of. 

“Tofu,” Hathaway says. “You’ll like it, I promise.”

“Spinach and tofu. Whatever happened to mince?” Robbie grumbles. 

“I never said there wouldn’t be mince.”

Robbie shuffles things around in the trolley until he unearths a package of lean minced turkey. 

“Hmph,” he says. 

“O, ye of little faith,” Hathaway crows, placing his carefully selected tomatoes in the trolley and moving on to peppers. “If you want garlic bread, you’d better go get another loaf.”

Robbie hmphs again and heads off for the bakery section. As he’s learned over the years, bread from the bread aisle won’t cut it where Hathaway is concerned. 

“My husband is always trying to get me to eat healthy, too,” a woman says, leaning toward him conspiratorially when he stops to contemplate the tempting display of crisps at the edge of the vegetable section. 

“Oh, he’s not—“

She ignores his protest and keeps talking. “When it’s done right spinach in lasagna is quite tasty.”

“I’ll bear that in mind,” Robbie says. 

The woman smiles at him indulgently and wanders off. Robbie shakes his head and continues to the bakery. On the way back past he grabs two bags of onion and dill crisps off the display.

**four**  


Hathaway bumps Robbie’s shoulder as they walk toward the Head of the River, his sunglasses and a big grin on his face. Robbie can’t help but grin back. The case is solved, the sun is out, it’s long before sunset on a summer Friday evening and Innocent has gifted them with a rare weekend off. Hathaway heads inside to get the first round and order their food and Robbie snags them a miraculously open table right by the river. 

Most of the way through their pints, a server appears with their meals. 

“Celebrating?” the server asks as she sets plates down on the table. 

“Aye, you could say that I suppose.” Robbie isn’t sure what makes pints and fish and chips, or Hathaway’s salad look festive, but the end of this slog of a case, in combination with the gorgeous weather, has put them both in a fine mood. James is positively chipper.

“Enjoy,” she says, with a strangely knowing smile.

“Cheers,” Hathaway replies. 

She glances back at them over her shoulder as she stops to pick up empty plates at the next table over. 

The fish and chips is as good as it always is and Hathaway is making pleased noises over his local organic salad with sustainably raised, seared pork strips and balsamic reduction; so much so that Robbie finally gives in and tries some, trading a bit of his fish in turn. Hathaway is right, it is delicious. Almost delicious enough to make Robbie wish he’d ordered the salad. Instead of admitting that out loud, he goes inside to get the next round.

They pass the rest of their meal with idle chatter. Hathaway telling Robbie about an upcoming chamber music recital he’s looking forward to and the band’s next few gigs at various small churches in Cotswold villages. Robbie relays Lyn’s plans for extending the kitchen on her house and her efforts to get Robbie up to help out. They watch a kayaker doing manoeuvres in the current flowing under the bridge, almost capsizing a couple of times in the unusually high water, but saving himself at the last minute every time. 

“We have a special decadent chocolate lava cake for two on the menu today,” the server says when she stops to remove their empty plates. “It comes with fresh whipped cream and a raspberry drizzle.”

“Thanks for the tip,” Robbie says. She flashes him that knowing smile again as she leaves.

Hathaway is grinning at him from across the table. 

“Out with it, then,” Robbie says. 

“I believe she’s under the impression that we’re celebrating some sort of anniversary.” 

Robbie thinks back. “I suppose it has been something like five years since we started working together.”

“Don’t think she’s thinking about work.”

“Ah,” Robbie nods, he can feel his face heating a bit at the thought. “I wouldn’t say no to some cake, though.”

“And a spot of port to go along?” James asks.

“Go on, then,” Robbie says.

**five**  


They find their victim’s partner in the office the two of them had shared; a typical college don’s room stuffed to the gills with books and maps and other bric-a-brac related to some obscure field of research. Dr Travis Filburn is sitting on one of the two desks crammed in amongst it all, gazing across the room at the other empty desk.

Filburn blinks at them as if coming out of a daze when Robbie knocks on the half-open door. He gives the two of them a once over and a slightly confused look before saying, “You’re the detectives?”

“Aye,” Robbie says, closing the door behind them. “You were Dr Singer’s partner?” 

“In more ways than one,” Filburn replies. He scoots down off the desk, taking a seat behind it and gestures to the small sofa off to the left. “Have a seat.”

Robbie sits and James squeezes in next to him, leg touching Robbie’s from hip to knee, to avoid the pile of books and papers which wobbles on the cushion next to him when he sits down.

“You can move that,” Filburn says, gesturing to the pile.

“Cheers.” Hathaway places the lot on the floor but doesn’t move over into the space that’s been vacated. 

“You said Dr Singer was your partner in more ways than one?” Robbie prompts.

“Yes,” Filburn says. “Not the done thing, I know. A lot of couples would find it difficult to work together, but we worked together before we were together romantically.” He sighs, a dreamy look crossing his face. “From the first day I sat one of his lectures, we just clicked. And then we discovered how well our writing and working styles meshed while I was doing my D.Phil. We’ve been working together ever since and then…” he trails off, looking down at his hands folded in front of him on the paper-strewn desk. 

Hathaway stiffens almost imperceptibly next to Robbie. When he glances over, his face is that careful blank that gives nothing away but Robbie knows is hiding any number of things.

“I thought we had all the time in the world,” Filburn continues, looking up again. “If only I’d known. All those years and— If only I’d said something earlier— Not that I’m not grateful for the time we did have, we were friends and colleagues for ten years, but we were only together for five…” he shakes his head and sighs. “Sorry, I’m rambling. This can’t be relevant to the investigation.”

“It’s all right,” Robbie says. “I’m sorry for your loss.” 

Filburn nods, bites his lip, and murmurs, “Thank you.”

Hathaway shifts next to Robbie as if he’s about to add something; he looks uncharacteristically affected by what Filburn has said. Then he gives a long blink and pulls his notebook and pen out of his jacket. When he looks up at Filburn the look on his face is professional courtesy blank.

“Can you think of anyone who may have wanted to harm Dr Singer?” Hathaway asks.

“No. Or not like that, anyway. He’s had this ongoing sort of half-joking feud with Professor Milton for years but that’s all harmless pranks.”

“Could there have been escalation?” 

Filburn shakes his head. “No. It was David’s turn anyway. Their pranking was all very civilised.”

It’s clear before they even make it through all the standard questions—Hathaway’s arm brushing Robbie’s as he takes notes—that whoever murdered David Singer, Travis Filburn had nothing to do with it. And he’s only looking increasingly more morose as the interview goes on. Time to leave the poor man in peace.

“Thank you for your time, Dr Filburn,” Robbie says. 

“Of course,” Filburn answers. “But call me Travis, please.” 

They both stand to go, Hathaway standing a little closer than usual as they head for the door. 

Travis stands too, stepping out from behind the desk. “You’ll let me know, will you? When you find out who did it?”

“We will,” Hathaway says, emphatically, as Robbie reaches behind him to open the door. “I’ll let you know personally.”

“Thank you,” Travis says. “It helps to have such sympathetic investigating officers. Really. It means a lot.” 

“Just doing our job,” Robbie says. 

“Well, I appreciate it,” Travis says, sounding a bit choked up. 

“Of course,” Robbie says. 

They leave Travis standing in the middle of his office, looking like the dictionary definition of the word forlorn.

As soon as they’re on the pavement, Hathaway stops to light a cigarette. Robbie doesn’t miss the slight tremble in his hands. 

“All right?” Robbie asks.

“Yeah,” James says, unconvincingly, but he falls into step with Robbie all the same.

They’ve made it to the car, key in the ignition and Robbie about to start the engine, before Hathaway says anything more. 

“Sir,” he says cautiously. “There’s something I think I need to tell you.”

“It’s not about the case, is it?” Robbie asks with trepidation. 

“Only tangentially.”

“All right,” Robbie says, though Hathaway’s reply doesn’t instil confidence.

“It’s—” Hathaway shakes his head and looks down at his hands in his lap.

“Hey,” Robbie says. Hathaway looks up at him, looking almost as forlorn as Travis when they left his office. “It’s not worked out so well when you’ve held things back about cases in the past,” he says gently. “So just tell me what it is and we’ll work it out. Whatever it is.”

Hathaway sighs. “This is different.” He glances at Robbie, then gazes out through the windscreen. “What Filburn said about thinking he had more time. I don’t want to make the same mistake.” He takes a deep breath, as if steeling himself. “I value your friendship more than any other I’ve ever had in my life,” James says with none of the sarcasm that’s always present when he makes such statements. “I don’t even want to imagine what my life would be like without it, but if there’s a chance, however small that you might— That there could be more between us.” He glances at Robbie, then away, biting at his thumbnail. 

“James,” Robbie says. “Are you saying that you— Like how Filburn and Singer worked together before they were—?”

“Yeah.” James nods, still not meeting Robbie’s eye. His ears have taken on a pink tinge. 

And isn’t that a bombshell and a half. Robbie’s world has been shaken on its foundations. It’s as if that one statement has upended all his memories of the two of them down the years—all the things James has done and said—scattering them into an entirely new and suddenly very obvious configuration. That _more_ James is talking about, Robbie realises with the clarity of someone finally seeing the sun after weeks of rain, is something he very much wants himself.

“I like the sound of more,” Robbie says.

James looks up at him and smiles a smile of undisguised delight.

**\+ one**  


Nothing beats a couple of glasses of whisky from the distillery down the road after a long day spent walking through the highlands. Robbie is knackered, but it’s nothing like knackered after a long day at work—although sometimes it feels like they walk as far chasing down leads. This is a contented sort of tired; his mind’s eye still full of ruggedly beautiful vistas and James by his side, relaxed and smiling and pointing out points of interest along the way. 

They’re sitting at one of the many tables outside tonight’s inn, ostensibly so James can smoke, but also to take advantage of the surprisingly warm and sunny weather they’ve been having for the past two days. They chat about tomorrow’s route and the castle they’ll be visiting, assuming they make as good time as today. James sitting sideways on the bench, regaling him with the history of the castle and the fascinating small chapel on the castle grounds, gesturing with the hand holding his cigarette as he describes the frescoes he hopes to see, then pausing to sip the whisky held in his other hand. 

As much as Robbie may occasionally take the piss over James’ more wikipedia-like moments, he can’t help but smile fondly. Which James catches him at and smiles back. 

James stubs out his cigarette and turns to face Robbie again, putting his glass down on the table, his hand resting next to it. Robbie can’t help himself. He reaches for James’ hand. James’ smile widens as he twines their fingers together. He is looking a bit sunburnt or possibly a bit embarrassed but he doesn’t let go. 

“Mind if I sit?” A middle-aged woman with short grey hair and her own glass of whisky in hand is standing at the empty end of their table. “It seems everyone wants to be outside in this weather,” she says, and Robbie realises the other tables are all full. There’d only been one other couple out here when they sat down. He’s been so caught up with James he hadn’t even noticed. 

“Aye, have a seat,” Robbie says, pulling his hand away from James’ and gesturing to the bench.

“Thank you,” she says, sitting down. “I hope I’m not interrupting, but I couldn’t bear to sit inside on such a beautiful day.”

“Oh no,” Robbie assures her. “We’re just unwinding.”

“Are you on a walking holiday as well?” She’s wearing similar hiking kit to what they’re wearing.

“Aye, specially tailored to our interests.”

“Oh, which tour company? The one I’m on is lovely, but I do wish I had a bit more flexibility with accommodation and the number of days in each location.”

“That would be me,” James says. “I’m afraid the service is only available to select individuals.”

“Ah,” she says, with a grin. “I’m Nora, by the way.”

“Robbie,” Robbie says. “And this is James.” 

Nora and James quickly fall into a conversation about local history. Robbie is content to listen, adding the occasional pithy comment, and buy another round when they’ve all finished their drinks. 

“How long have you been together?” Nora asks when Robbie’s placed another selection of local whiskies on the table.

“Six months,” Robbie says, right over the top of James saying, “Six years.” 

They look at each other and laugh. 

“I was his sergeant,” James says. “Until I finally plucked up the courage to admit I’d been in love with him the whole time.” He says it with a lightness that belies the emotionally charged moments of that first weekend. 

“Ooh, scandalous,” Nora says, with not a little bit of relish.

“I suppose it could have been,” says James, waggling his eyebrows. 

Robbie chuckles. “Turns out me returning his feelings is all the encouragement he needed to finally go for Inspector.” 

“You’re police?” Nora asks.

“Aye,” Robbie says. “Detectives.” 

“Partners in more ways than one,” James adds. 

“How romantic,” says Nora, lifting her glass.

_____


End file.
